Random Tales of Short Ideas
by Rarsh
Summary: A collection of short stories that explore any aspect of the Harry Potter Universe (don't expect slash!), I hope you enjoy my dribbles and one-shots! Everything is up for adoption.
1. Master of Death

The old, _Elder_ pointed piece of unidentifiable wood made no sound as it left its Master's pocket. The wand was the only one to be void of a core, instead being a solid piece of wood, and yet it was the most powerful wand known.

The wizard kept the Elder Wand lowered at his side, and his other hand fished out a small rock out of a concealed pocket. The stone did not look like anything special, it was after all merely picked up from a riverbank, centuries ago, by a cloaked figure. Its powers though held more interest.

The wizard checked again the presence of the folded silvery cloak on a rock by his side. His breath was loud as he inhaled through his mouth, and exhaled through his nose, in a feeble attempt to relax.

His fingers nimbly rotated the Resurrection Stone three times, and he spoke, his voice no louder than a low breath, but the Magic took effect.

"Sirius Black."

A figure, a ghostly, pale and see-through silhouette materialized in front of Harry Potter, Master of Death.

"Harry..." it said, but the man, for it was a tall, dark-haired and handsome man, had features that spoke of regret, and maybe deception.

His Godson didn't know how much communicating with the dead could hurt a man.

The Elder Wand, Deathstick, Unbeatable Wand, Deathly Hallow, was raised to point at Sirius Black's heart.

"You may come back," was all Harry said.

The eyes that were so sad a minute before widened, but the silhouette spluttered, "But... But James, Lily, Remus! All the others!"

"They can come back too, if they wish to do so," Harry answered, the hope that _all_ would accept and be his family lending firmness to his emotional voice.

A moment of silence, then a light emerged from the legendary wand, and Sirius Black closed his hand around it. After only seconds, the man had pulled himself out, and the silhouette became matter, hard, tangible matter.

The two's smiles were great, but panic filled the reborn man's expression when the cold came. His skin visibly withered, as if Time had passed quicker for him, just for him, and the _cold_ spread to their surroundings, stilling the wind.

"I'm dying... not again!"

"No, Padfoot, not again," and he threw the Invisibility Cloak on his adopted father's shoulders shielding him from sight, from his sight, from the very sight of Death.

The cold withdrew.

When it had completely gone, Harry's hand grasped at the empty air, somehow pulling back a silvery veil. Under it appeared Sirius Black, a coompletely healthy, happy, and impressed Sirius Black. An _alive _Sirius Black.

Call back the dead.

Give them the chance to come back.

Hide them before they can be claimed once again.

Harry Potter was the Master of Death.


	2. The Breaking Point

A/N: Just a random one-shot, about a thought I had a few days ago. In canon, Dumbledore waits for Harry to live one of the worst moments of his life before telling him the prophecy. What if he'd told him after the graveyard? At fourteen years old, it is way too much for Harry. Hope you like it!

-o-O-o-

Harry Potter's green eyes, robbed of the strength they'd always held under hardship, stared without reason at a meaningless spot on a blank wall. His left arm shook for an instant, then rested again on the hard mattress of an old bed.

Every now and then, a limb would shake, an eye twitch; remnants of pain lightly flashed through a muscle, the memory of the overwhelming responsibility that crushed his shoulders pushed a little emotion into the corners of the dead-like eyes.

"_Crucio_."

Pain.

"Long before you were born, a prophecy was made."

Nervousness.

"_Avada Kedavra_."

Cedric.

"_And either must die at the hand of the other, ..._"

Fear.

"Robe me."

Denial.

Harry's brain processed a few thoughts, not coherent, mere feelings and sensations. Denial was first, as strong as when it first appeared, because it was _all just a dream_. With denial it all made sense, so suddenly that it was impossible to consider another way.

_Yes. It never happened_.

And something screamed "It did!", something somewhere somehow screamed something, when? Where? Did it? What did it say? It never happened. It said it never happened.

Because it didn't.

A leg shook.

Why the pain then? It was still there, because he was awake, so something had to be keeping him awake, and there was pain, he was nearly sure of it, so it made sense. Where did the pain come from?

An eye twitched. The fear. _Crucio_. That's all there is to it, isn't it? _Crucio, Crucio, Crucio_, have pain!

Harry's entire body tensed for a moment, the remembrance of _Crucio_ too real, still too real. Too close. Instead of shaking, his right hand started trembling. Steadily trembling. He's back.

More thoughts were threatening to invade the tired brain.

He's back and he has already killed. Nearly killed twice, in fact. Cedric, _damn it Cedric_, I didn't even know you!

Yet it's my fault, so I care. I care too much. I liked being empty, empty was good. Let's go cold. It would be easy to end it, just put the pointy end of the stick on you and say the words. He'd heard the words days before, _Avada Kedavra_, it looked so easy!

But could he really? _Either must die at the hand of the other_, that's what it said, so I can't. If only it hadn't happened... but it did. Now I have to _die at the hand of the other_, that should be easy?

Or should he _die at _my _hand_? Not possible. He's back, and I'm still shaking. I'm dead, I'm already dead and I'm still hurting. Death on earth sucks, I don't know how the bastard took thirteen years of it.

But that's because he's stronger than me. I'm going to die, and it hurts after _four days_!

Minutes under the desire to hurt fueled curse of a sadistic Dark Lord does that, yes sir. Cynicism was back, was that good?

Yes, Harry was certainly feeling more than he did minutes before. Too bad, he liked cold, it was easier. Killing Voldemort was hard.

A hint of mirth, cynical, painful mirth but mirth all the same brightened the emerald stare; a tear rolled out and it was gone.

I'm dead. I'm dead, I'm _prophecised_ to be dead, Cedric's _already_ dead, we're all going to die. Not Voldemort though, he's immortal. He's immortal and I'm the one who has to kill him.

The young, bruised, battered body of Harry Potter curled slightly, pathetically attempting to find comfort in its own protection, when it could not protect.

I can't protect anyone, no one else can protect them. Thank you, Prophecy!

The morbid mirth was back, and the body gave a large shake. It shook again, and then some more, and the shaking changed into an unsteady trembling.

The thoughts, emotions, memories, the people, the living, the dead, the goodbyes, the fear, the pain, the solitude broke down Harry's weak, weakness fueled barriers and flooded his sore and cold mind, and the eyes went crazy.

Two green orbs started moving around, shakily, as if they were looking for anything to hold onto, but there was nothing, only a bedroom filled with bad, _bad_ memories, and he trembled, shook and trembled again.

His sking was going cold, his lips blue, uncontrollable tears and laughter mixed together in a freak reaction to _so much _emotion at once!

Dammit, he liked cold! Why all the feelings, they _hurt_!

But he was not thinking clearly, because his body was out of control, it was panicked, panicking, it was shutting down. Everything went cold, _cold is good, cold doesn't hurt me_, and a low song echoed in the room.

A song that brought _more_ feelings and emotions and hurt, and Harry got worse, lips blue, eyes crazy, fingers icy. He didn't need more feelings, fuck you Fawkes!

As consciousness started slipping away from the Boy-Who-Lived, two flashes of fire were reflected in Harry's eyes, and a voice was heard.

"What the, Harry?"

The trembling got only worse.

"Harry! Oh shit!"

Something that was mostly red jumped to his side on the bed, Harry barely noticed though, and Ginny held him tight.

He was so cold, what happened? A curse? He was too cold, heating up too slowly, so she pulled his shirt up, hers too, and she fell back down on him, willing her heat into him.

She positioned herself so as to increase skin contact, her left hand under his back and the right arm wrapped around his neck while her body melted into him. He _had_ to go hotter, the cold was killing him, and _why on earth did Fawkes bring me here_!

I'm not a healer.

But then, he was actually shaking a little less. It could be a bad thing too, but it felt good, so she continued.

Harry had to add confusion to the list of feelings that assaulted him, but this one was a good one. He was cold, just like he wanted to be, but there was something hot on him. _Good _heat. When his thoughts were clearer and a small fragment of control over his body was back, his arms started wrapping around the heat.

"Don't worry Harry, it's okay. You'll be okay. Breathe slowly. Breathe. I'm here."

The voice was fast, too much to be soothing, but Harry liked it, so he did what it said. It was a little like an Imperius, and yet the bliss wasn't quite as fake.

Minutes and minutes later, the two were still holding each other.

In a four days span, Harry had witnessed a death, been used, tortured, told he had to do the impossible and kill the immortal and save the country - or is it the world? - , gone cold, thought back, and gone into shock.

But now he was back.

Don't worry Tom, I'm coming for you.

-o-O-o-

Ta-da! Hope you liked it, please review, if you did enjoy my work then you can favourite and recommend to your friends, family, pets and neighbors too! See you next time!


	3. Time and Explosives

The moment stretched, a light flashing past its target, a scream, the adrenalin-filled blood splashed against a wall.

At first, it was like it was told in the stories: the moment stretched, because this curse was explosive, and it was heading straight for wooden shelves, shelves that were stuck to the wall with magic, but more importantly, shelves that held Time-Turners.

They really thought the moment stretched, and the reason was that it did; as the Blasting Hex flew closer to the fragile, and powerful, artifacts, they spinned faster and faster, and Time slowed down, percetibly.

Then it completely stopped. They were paralysed, but conscious, and as every physical thing in the room was frozen, a feeling of loud panick inhabited each mind. Very slowly, so slowly that none noticed, the minds began to pull back from the matter, until it very suddenly snapped.

The link between body and soul snapped and, like an overstretched rubber band, the latters flew in every direction.

Hermione's hazel eyes snapped open, and the witch rolled to the side, her wand shortly out of its holster, and her surroundings taken in. She stood, cautiously, and a few spells, detection spells, gave negative results.

Her robes were still slightly wet from the roll on the early morning grass, and all that surrounded her was a field. A large, unaltered by the human species field. After a minute of thought, and confusion, there was a crack and she was gone.

Her apparition brought her to where Hogwarts was supposed to be, supposed to because it wasn't there. Hogwarts _wasn't there_. The mountains were the same, the Black Lake the same, though there was apparently no Giant Squid in there, and the dark ominous Forest covered an obviously larger area.

_Crack. Crack. Crack._

Nothing. Nothing she knew was theren and that meant she'd been sent back in Time, and very far back.

Hermione appeared once again where her old school would one day be, turned toward the Forest and, forcing back memories of the 'light reading' of another time, prowled in to hunt for some food. Thoughts of her friends distracted her for a moment, and whenever they were, she could only hope they'd be alright.


	4. Train Me

The place could only be called a palace. The gold and silver adorned every surface with grace and style, the wind blowing from the windows sang, the food was prepared with the standarts of a King. The Library was perfect.

It was unbearable. How long had it been, the old man sometimes asked the singing wind, though never did it answer.

In truth, over fifty long years had passed, and the young man had grown, then withered, in his golden prison. He had a wand. The wards were too strong. Even after all the decades, the wards were still too strong; of course, the Library held no knowledge about the matter.

Brute force did little, ward-breaking did nothing. There was no way out of Nurmengard, none The one, and only contact with the world were papers.

In Nurmengard, you read books, you read newspapers.

Thankfully the news had become somewhat more entertaining in the last years. A Dark Lord rose, fell, a child survived, then survived again, and again.

And the Dark Lord comes back, and a teenager has to save the country. It was all highly amusing to Gellert Grindelwald; shouldn't Albus Dumbledore have taken care of this Voldemort by now? He'd taken care of his old friend all right. Oh, how the might have fallen, he dramatically entoned, still to the blowing winds, never expecting an answer and never getting one, when he read more about an entire war, that could be summed up in the life stories of a maniac and a young man.

One day, he had an answer.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen!"

"They have. Never expected Gellert Grindelwald to go crazy, really."

The old man froze in his comfortable seat. It hadn't been half as comfortable the previous decade, but the repeated use had molded it to fit its user. The joys of prison.

Doubts about his sanity arose in the man's mind, and he turned around, never truly expecting to see a young man, just standing there. The still blowing wind was ruffling the already messy black hair, and a hand rose to adjust the round glasses.

The young face was serious, but the green eyes were brighter, the boy was amused at his own humor. Gellert had always refrained from joking to himself.

Believing his own imagination was a constant fear in Nurmengard, in solitude. So he lived without humor. Only research. Research was sane, and he had always known, somehow, that he had to stay sane.

Was the boy why? He did ring a bell, he'd been in the papers more than once.

"You're... Harry Potter," he breathed.

"Happy to learn old magical Nazis also know my name. I want you to train me."

Damn, was he blunt.

"Why would I do that? I am fairly certain I could kill you right now, and in here, no one would know," he asked, and explained, though why he didn't know; he knew he'd accept. He was so _alone_. He couldn't kill him.

"You're too alone. You can't kill me."

The gazes met, and both smiled; the old Nazi wizard who used to fancy himself Emperor of the World, and the selfless, young, prophecised, hero smiled at each other.

"I'll do it."


	5. All Over Again

"Yer a wizard, Harry."

The booming voice echoed for a moment in the pitiful wooden shack. Harry nodded.

"I know. I'm different," he answered confidently, but a hint of trepidation betrayed his emotions.

It was true! He'd always known he was special, but never been certain that it was actually _magic_.

"Ah, I take it yer Muggles told yeh about it, then," the giant looked confused when Harry shook his head at those words. "Er... Anyway, yer going to Hogwarts this year, so yeh should follow me to Diagon Alley, get your wand and all."

The Dursleys were being awfully silent, if they had made a single sound since the beginning of the encounter, then it had been covered by the sounds of the wicked sea outside the shaking walls, or maybe by their visitor's loud exclamations.

For years, the Dursleys had attempted to beat the magic out of Harry, they'd convinced themselves it was a noble crusade, a crusade that justified locking a growing boy in a cupboard, starving him, and letting the other boys of the neighborhood beat him up. Never would they hit him thesmselves though, and get his filth on their hands. It was all the kids, and kids are innocent, right?

So it couldn't be that bad. And it was for his own good, who needs magic when you can be perfectly normal?

When Harry was eight, the bullies stopped attacking him. From one day to the other, they were so completely scared that not a single grown up heard a single explanation. Harry was left alone from then on, with only the occasional week locked in a cupboard without food.

When it appeared the filthy magic was coming back to the boy, the Dursleys panicked: they asked Dudley why he stopped 'playing' with his cousin, a question left unanswered. So, Vernon reminded himself of his crusade to rid the brat of his abnormalness and turn him into a normal young man. Maybe not a fine, happy and healthy one, but normal nonetheless. He would thank them later if he ever stopped being so ungrateful.

Vernon, this _one_ time, went to Harry's cupboard, unlocked it, and stepped in as far as his bulky frame allowed him to. The boy looked at him, his annoying amused smile tugging at his lips in pure defiance, and Vernon grabbed him by his thin shoulders.

And he shook him, hard, for all of five seconds, screaming at him to let go of the freakiness, because it had gotten his parents killed, it would get _him_ killed too, and it wasn't normal!

Then Harry fell back on the hard ground he wasn't aware he had left, because his uncle was holding both of his hands close to his chest, mouth open and eyes wide in shock and pain. He let out small whimpers, shot a few looks of confused fear at the brat who was acting like he hadn't done anything on purpose, and left the cupboard as fast as he could.

Once out, he allowed himself to scream his torture, as if expecting Harry wouldn't hear his weakness, but the boy had already seen the reason for this. In his hurry to back out of the tiny doorframe, he had revealed his hands, and both were completely still, contorted by heavily cramped muscles in a position that threatened to snap bones.

A small snap followed by more screams confirmed Harry's assessment of the situation, and he bit his lip, pressing his hands to his face. Barely restraining a laugh.

Yes, Harry was a twisted kid, his sense of morals broken by a healthy and noble crusade of his relatives'. If it was acceptable to hurt him for his own good, why wouldn't _he _hurt _others_ for his own good? It made sense to Harry.

And of course, he'd always been different, better even, so the rules were not made for him in the first place.

After this incident the crusade was cancelled, all hope to save the boy lost, the Dursleys resigned themselves to his attenting the freak school and fed him. Harry was closing in on his ninth birthday, and for the first time in his life, he was being fed almost as much as Dudley, he was moved to a real bedroom, he had new clothes.

When his birthday came, his relatives gave him a small pastry with a candle on it, and as a gift a small box of building boxes. There was no party, but Harry was amazed by what happened that day.

Ever since he'd hurt his uncle, the man had been kinder, and Harry's life better. If it was that easy...

Close to two years passed in the same atmosphere, tension high in the house, but Harry healthy, carefully watching his relatives for a slip-up, for a reason to push them back on the right track.

Indeed, after the time he 'punished' his uncle, progressively, Harry had started wanting to do it again. To hold power over the man who was physically stronger and had decided to make his life hell, to break the leader's authority with his own, to feel power. Harry longed for more power, something he hadn't even realized himself.

Not that the kid was an idiot, as the day he'd understood he wouldn't, couldn't get punished for getting better grades than his cousin, Harry had reached the top of his class, and even been accused of cheating by his teachers. In those instances, Vernon was always quick to correct the teachers, the boy simply hadn't applied himself before, really.

No, Harry was unknowingly waiting for the next good occasion to strike at his relatives, or anyone else as a matter of fact, and the opportunity had arrived when Vernon decided to get stubborn and steal Harry's letter. The only letter Harry had ever received, Vernon wanted to take.

That was grounds for punishment, right? But he'd waited before truly wishing the man pain, and only watched him, eyes alternatively set on his eyes or his throat like a hungry, dangerous dog's. Vernon, not a complete idiot himself, saw the look and prayed the brat understood it was for his own good.

After two years, the lesson hadn't been forgotten, only the resignation that he'd attend the freak school had lessened, and Vernon's courage had come back, if only slightly.

So Harry did nothing, merely watched his uncle struggle to stop the letters, comforted in the knowledge that, once he really wanted to read the letter, he'd get it in a heartbeat. The adrenalin simmered in his blood at the idea of waiting for the right moment to strike, and he liked that. But now that he was so excited, he'd have to hurt someone for the feeling to stop. He had to, and thankfully it would feel good.

Somehow the morbidly obese ex-crusader was able to keep his nerve under Harry's intense gaze up until the point when they hid in a small wooden shack, in the middle of the sea, as away from the freaks as they could get while staying in the country.

Vernon wasn't going to flee from this country's freaks, only to end up living among Americans. Those were freaky in their own right. "Certainly not proper people, those Americans, not a single fine young man in the country dedicated to decadence, no sir, I'll stay in the Queen's England thank you very much!" had been the man's words while he ranted in his car.

But then, the giant kept talking.

"Don't look at meh like that, yeh know what Hogwarts is, right?"

Harry shook his head.

_Oh no, please no, God no,_ ... a fearful voice pleaded in Vernon's head.

"What _is _Hogwarts?"

Silence. Deep, threatening silence, a silence full of bad news for the normal people huddling in a corner of the room.

"Didn't they tell yeh about it? They told you nothing?"

Now they had _two_ irate freaks after them, and one of them had bent a rifle like it was nothing while the other could hurt with a thought. Never had the Durselys been so afraid before in their normal lives.

He rounded on them. "_WHY_ didn't yeh tell him? Muggles! Answer meh!" he bellowed, and Dudley just about fainted in his frozen mother's arms.

Weirdly, Harry came to their rescue.

"Please, let me ask them politely. Maybe they'll tell _me_," he said, and stepped forward.

"Uncle, why did you not tell me about the magic? You knew everything, didn't you?"

Vernon's breath started getting out of control, the gaze Harry had maintained for the entire week had turned into something new, and more sinister.

"We... I... it was for you!"

"How was it for my own good? You lied to me about who I am. You denied me my identity. How's that good for me!"

Vernon looked sheepish, and still about to soil himself. Of course he'd never be able to make them understand, those two were freaks, of _course_ they didn't want to be normal! They believed freaky was good!

Without anything to answer that could save him and his family at that point, the once intimidating man merely spluttered.

Dudley awoke with a start, and immediately his hand went to his stomach.

"Dudley, are you alright?" his concerned mother asked, holding him in her weak arms, and her voice no more than a strong whisper.

"Tell me! _Uncle_, why did you keep my identity away from me?"

When Vernon alternated between gaping at him and looking with concern at his son, Dudley let out a pained scream. For a boy unused to be on the receiving end of it, the pain was quickly becoming unbearable.

Hagrid was more confused than ever, looking at the scene from a corner of the room, his usually overwhelming presence somehow forgotten.

"Harry, please stop hurting Duddy! He hasn't done anything!" Petunia pleaded, uselessly.

With a glance at the giant, Harry replied, "I don't know what you are talking about, Uncle. However, he _has _done a lot of things to me in the past, and always gotten away with it."

Dudley whimpered some more.

"_Answer me_."

"We wanted to help you! We knew you had.. magic, so we tried to make you normal... we thought, maybe if being not normal causes him to be unhappy, and locked and hungry, maybe the freakiness will go away?"

Satisfied with the truthful answer, Harry allowed Dudley to breathe. Too bad, it had felt really good.

But the show wasn't over.

Hagrid stepped forward again, stalking his prey, his pink umbrella held high in front of him, somewhat menacingly.

"You _WHAT_? Did you... starve, and lock down _Harry Potter_? What is wrong with you?"

Then he swished his umbrella in the air, and brutally flicked it down toward Vernon. There was a flash of light, and the man's hands, feet, nose and skin color were that of a pig. The room went silent, with the Dursleys in a state of schock, Harry amazed at the power of magic, and Hagrid looking at his umbrella with interest.

"Never managed that close a Transfiguration before, I tell yah..." he mumbled, apparently calmed down.

"Yeh know what Harry, let's go ter Diagon Alley, get yer stuff an'all. Follow meh."


End file.
